He told of hunger, he told of a sick old woman. All this was very touching, but it had lost its freshness by constant repetition—the pity of it had become, as it were, stamped out. Kiril, indeed, was a common type, whose state of mind made him valuable as material to be used up at an opportune moment in the interests of a political cause.
Stchemilov was saying:
“The Black Hundred are organizing. Zherbenev is very busy at this—he’s one of your genuine Russians.”
“Kerbakh is with him—another patriot for you,” observed Kiril.
“The most dangerous man in our town, this Zherbenev. Vermin of the most foul kind,” said Stchemilov contemptuously.
“I am going to kill him,” said Kiril hotly.
To this Elisaveta said:
“In order to kill a man you need to believe that one man is essentially better or worse than another, that he is distinct from the other not accidentally or socially, but in the mystic sense. That is to say, murder only confirms inequality.”
“By the way, Elisaveta,” remarked Stchemilov, “we have come to talk business with you.”
“Tell me what it is,” answered Elisaveta calmly.